


2 190,4 miles (home)

by orphan_account



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Abuse, Backstory, Billy Hargrove Is Obsessed With Steve Harrington, Character Study, Child Abuse, Developing Relationship, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Introspection, Maybe out of character, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Period Typical Bigotry, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Soft Steve Harrington, Underage Sex, Warning: Neil Hargrove, a hopeful ending, other characters appear, start of a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22050475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Five times Billy Hargrove felt like he didn’t belong, and one time he felt like maybe he could.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Original Character(s), Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 32
Kudos: 125





	1. one

I

His dad got home before him. It was weird, because he _never_ came home before five. Billy has heard him talk about overtime and hard work enough times to know what there was _no_ reason for his dad to go home early. Another weird thing was that his mom wasn’t. If she _was_ home, she’d be in their cramped hall already, taking his backpack and telling him off about dirtying the knees of his jeans, ruffling his hair and laughing to show that she wasn’t _actually_ mad. But she wasn’t home. Dad was. He turned his head sideways, so he could look into their kitchen without actually leaving the hall, and saw him. His dad wasn’t in the kitchen all that often if it wasn’t for dinner, but now he was. He was sitting with his back turned away, drinking from one of those big heavy glasses Billy wasn’t allowed to touch. He’s murmuring, words all jumbled together. Billy doesn’t wanna to hear it. He doesn’t like the way his dad could talk, when he was angry. Or when he was irritated or _tired_ or _had enough of this shit_.

He skipped the usual round to the kitchen to leave his lunch box, and did something he wasn’t allowed to instead. He went into his parents room. His dad didn’t let him in there, said he had no business to be snooping around. When he was smaller, he loved being in there. Loved sitting on the big bed and watch as his mom picked out jewellery and asked him which ones he liked best. _Everything,_ he’d say. He loved going through his moms drawers, pull out the thin, airy fabrics. Loved the colors of her scarfs and summery dresses. When his dad found out, saw him all wrapped up in him moms patterned textiles she buys from the people on the beach, he’d been angry. That kind of angry that made him talk mean and say words Billy barely understood. That kind of angry that made him drink and yell at him mom, later, when Billy should be asleep. After that, his parents bedroom was strictly off limits. Even when it was just him and him mom in their little apartment. It was messy, in the bedroom. It shouldn’t be. His dad _hated_ messy. Hated lazy. His moms drawers are all pulled out, clothes missing and on the floor. Her little jewelry box was gone too, the one made of stained glass and metal that looked like gold. It was all gone. Just like her. And it’s weird, _nothing_ is like it should. His mom was gone and her stuff too, which meant... Which meant, she probably wasn’t coming back for a while. Billy sits down on the carpet, tries to think if she said something about going away. Some kind of vacation, but only her. No. She promised him, next vacation, she’ll take him to Blacks Beach. To see the _real_ surfers and the real big waves. She wouldn’t go alone. It’s so weird and nothing’s _normal,_ even though it should be. 

Something catches his eye, as he sits on the carpet in his parents room, even though he’s not _allowed_ to be there. It’s shiny, one of his moms necklaces. It’s the medallion she wears on Sunday’s, or when she dresses up. The one with Virgin Mary, the one that _protects_ her. It’s laying on the carpet, all tangled together. It shouldn’t be there, it should be with his mom, _he_ should be with her too. He tucks it in his pocket, hides it away. _For safekeeping._ He’s pushing himself off the carpet, onto his socked feet, when his dad comes in. When his dad sees him in the one room in their little apartment _he’s not supposed to be in_. 

“Get up,” is what his dad says, or spits, as he’s swaying by the door. Billy’s heart is going jackrabbit fast, because his dad’s _already_ angry, and he’s _defying the rules._

“I’m sorry, dad,” he tries, unsure of what to say. The medallion sits heavy in his pocket, and he thinks of how his mom says _it protects me_ , and hopes it’ll protect him too. He doesn’t get an answer, but when he tries to get out of the room, the room he’s not allowed to be in, his dad blocks the door. Traps him. 

“You know, Billy, you know you’re not to go in here. What makes you think you can defy me?” It’s not a question, he knows it in the way his dad is talking. Slow, _angry_. Dangerous. He tries to explain himself anyways, starts scrambling for words that’ll calm him down. Make things _normal._

“I was just looking for mom, I was just trying to-” His dad moves too quick, quicker than he should, after drinking so much of the gross smelling drink he hides under the sink. 

“Are you some special kind of idiot? She’s _gone._ You have _eyes_ don’t you? You haven’t seen the bitch around, have you?” His dad is too close, too angry. He’s talking in that angry way, the way he’ll talk to his mom, late at night when Billy should be sleeping. “ _Have you?”_ He demands again, coming _closer._ Billy backs away, shaking his head so hard it makes him dizzy. Hopes it’s the right answer. Maybe his dad would’ve backed away, calmed down, if it weren’t for what came next. If Billy’d been quiet, _like he should’ve._

“When” He sucks in a breath when his dad’s eyes snap down to meet his own. _Dangerous_ “When is she coming back?” 

He wasn’t ready for the slap. Didn’t expect it. Didn’t realize it _could_ happen. He tumbles onto the floor, right onto that carpet in the bedroom he’s not allowed to be in. His dad leaves, he doesn’t think he said anything. He left, left Billy lying there. Lying with his hand pressed to his too hot cheek. The tears fall hot, salty and unwanted. He’s too old to cry. Too old to act like a _sissy._

The carpet isn’t comfortable, nothing is. The medallion sits heavy in his pocket, even though it should sit around his moms neck. He lies on the floor of his parents bedroom, even if he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be here. He should be with his _mom._ His mom who’s gone, his mom who took her stuff before she left. Because she doesn’t want to be back. He’s alone in an apartment with his dad who’s too _angry._ And he doesn’t belong here. 


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning: this might be interpreted as non-con or dubious consent.

II

Billy’s fourteen when he goes to his first real party. The older kids in his building, the one’s his dad says to avoid, invited him. He doesn’t actively find ways to disobey his dad, not when he knows better, but he doesn’t see a reason to avoid people he likes. The other kids like him, because he looks older and talks like he knows how the world works. He likes them in return, for letting him shoot hoops with them or sit at their kitchen table, listening to how mothers and grandmothers and aunts speak fast in different languages. Now, he can add another reason to like them. He gets invited to high school parties. It’s not in his neighborhood, it’s in a _house._ One of those on the other side of town, the _nice_ neighborhoods with backyards and pools and _mommy, daddy, little baby brother._ There’s music playing, something Billy would never fuckin' _look_ at, but he grins when he sees that others seem to like it. Grins and accepts a plastic mug of _something_ that everyone’s holding. He drinks a lot of it, even though it's luke warm and tastes like piss. He looses his friends as soon as they walk through the door, he doesn’t mind. He finds other people. People who assume they have _calculus together or something_ , and he lets them assume. They like him, because he looks older and he talks like he knows how the world works.

He’s in the big, ugly kitchen when some girl presses up to close to him. He grins, because that’s what his friends would do. Because that’s what he _should_ do. She introduces herself as _Julie B, you know, from chem?_ And he grins at that too, even though he’s never met a Julie B, especially not in chemistry class. She’s older, he knows that much. He knows she’s probably sixteen, seventeen. Maybe even fuckin' _legal._ He knows the idea of her should _thrill_ him, and he always does try to do what he _should._ He lets her press up to him, in that big kitchen, puts his arm around her waist and tries to revel in the way she giggles and noses at his jaw in a way that’s probably supposed to come off as shy. When she asks him if he wants to dance, ‘cause it’s _my fav song, oh my god, come on!_ He says yes. He doesn’t know how to dance, turns out its easy. It’s not really dancing, he thinks, as she presses close up to him and moves her hips vaguely in time to the horrible music. He grips her waist, moves with her. It’s sweaty and hot and he _should_ like it. When she asks him if _it isn’t getting a bit hot, you wanna find somewhere to go?_ He says yes. They go upstairs, ignoring the piece of string the host must’ve put up in a pathetic attempt to keep people from going up. They find an empty bedroom, he grins when the girl pushes him closer to the bed, grins like he knows how this works. When she kisses him, he tries to do what he should. Remembers how his friends will brag about _things,_ how good they made it. How they make chicks _scream_. How _great_ it felt. He winds his arms tight around her, presses _close_ even though they’re already _too fucking close_. She walks them back, licking into his mouth, letting out a high pitched noice Billy _should_ love to hear, when he does the same to her. He hits the foot of the bed, and falls down, lays dazed for a moment, before she straddles him. He should be over the goddamn _moon,_ he _knows_ he should. He lets her pull at his shirt, lets her _look_ at him. When she takes off her own top, and slips off her skirt while she’s at it, he looks too. Looks and tries to find that _thing_ that should drive him crazy. He should be ecstatic, should be comparing this to heaven. He feels empty. 

She _touches_ him, snakes a hand into his unbuttoned jeans and touches him, and it feels good. It feels different from his own hand, and _finally_ some of that excitement he’s been waiting for, _begging_ for, comes. Then she moans, pushes her tits closer and it’s _gone._ He still grins, still tells her it feels _great_ because he _should._ She falters, after a while. Asks _what’s wrong_ and looks at him with furrowed brows and pouty, shimmery lips. He shakes his head so hard it makes him dizzy. He _should_ love this. He _is._ She softens then, she says _you’ve never done this before._ He wants to lie, wants to say _of course I have,_ but it feels like too much. Too _wrong._ So he nods, and she smiles. She takes the lead, _hot_ , his friends would say. He _wants_ to find it _hot._ Wants to compare it to fucking _heaven._ Then she pushes herself _down,_ down on him, it feels nice. Feels _good._ He grips her hips, juts his own forward, chasing the feeling. It feels _great,_ maybe she feels it too, she’s moaning breathlessly. He doesn’t want to hear her sounds, doesn’t want to see her. He knows it’s wrong of him. Knows he should keep his eyes trained on her every move. 

She leaves after, doesn’t ask for his number or to meet again. He’s relieved. Even though he _should_ want her. She leaves him lying in someone’s bed, shirt rucked up and jeans undone. He feels empty. Feels almost sick, because he didn’t want her. No matter how much he _should,_ he _can’t._ So he lays there, on a bed in some strangers big house in the wrong part of town. 

It takes him a while to shake off the numb feeling, it sticks. He heaves himself up, convinces himself that its _fine._ But the emptiness doesn’t leave. He doesn’t return down to the party, doesn’t joint the dancing or drink more of the drinks in that too big kitchen. He _can’t._ He doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong with sixteen, seventeen year olds and their parties he gets invited to because he looks older and talks like he knows how the world works. Doesn’t belong in some strangers house in the wrong part of town. So he leaves, walks and walks and hopes he’ll find somewhere he feels _whole._


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (WARNING: quite graphic violence in the end of this)

III

Billy changes, after a while. Decides that it’s _time_ for him to do so. To change. He gets harder, leans into the fact that he looks older, leans into the fact that no one gives a fuck about which side of town he comes from or how old he is if he can show them a _good time._ He starts working out, builds muscle and attracts girls who’re _nineteen, twenty._ Those kinda girls looking for some _fun_ during their spring break in _Cali._ He’s sixteen, but looks like he’s ready for _college,_ looks like the surfers he used to look at when he’d go down to the beach.

He stops being afraid, stops _expecting_ something else. Realized that what everyone else says is _bullshit_ , realizes that the _empty feeling_ is just fucking _life._ No one notices his change, no one _cares_ enough to notice him going from _scared, uncertain_ to who he is now, to not giving a _fuck._ No one, except his dad. He _hates_ him, his dad. Neil Hargroves hates his son with more emotion than any human ever should. His dad _hates_ how he started _carrying_ himself, hates how Billy’s almost as tall as him, now. _Hates_ those _blue eyes_ that he got from _her._ Billy doesn’t think of her, not like he used to. She could be dead, for all he knew. He kept her medallion, still. Keeps it around his throat, another thing for his dad to _hate_. He scoffs at its _protection_ , scoffs at himself as a little kid, thinking some piece of cheap metal dangling on a chain could _protect him_. He still wears it, though. Shows it off, revels in his dads venomous looks. Wants to yell, _I get it, dad. I hate me too, I get it._ When the looks turn to shoves and slaps and _punches_ , he gets it too. Hates it, but understands. It’s just fucking life. Sometimes he’s not all that sure he’ll get to even _live_ a life, when his dads punches won’t slow, when he’ll feel steel toed boots kick his at his ribs. After that, after to many times of _too far_ , he tries something new. He starts wearing his shirts open to his navel, cuts off the sleeves of his t-shirts. Skin constantly on display. _Dares_ his dad to hit him where it’ll _show._ Where it’ll show and people might _ask._ It doesn’t really work, and no one really asks. 

He gets a car, too. Buys her with money he’s saved from odd jobs he’d been doing since he was thirteen, buys it _himself._ It’s a Camaro, ‘79, and it's _his_ goddamn car. It’s his ticket to freedom, his _own_ goddamned property. His step away from being fucking _dependent_ of _anyone._ When he has his car, he doesn’t bother coming back to that little apartment. The apartment too small to be sharing with a man, with his _dad_ , who _hates_ him. He cruises around town, finds somewhere to park, crashes for the night if he has to. He rarely does, there’s always some party in one of those big, ugly villas on the other side of the city. It’s convenient. He shows up, finds a girl to fuck in one of the many bedrooms those houses always have on the second floor, and stays the night. It’s only if the host kicks him out, _tries_ to at least, that he’ll leave the comfort of some strangers bed. Then, he has his car. 

It gets easy, convenient. He’s figured out a routine, a complete _bullshit_ one, a routine that’ll keep him kickin’. He’s empty, but alive. He’s worked out the fucking _formula._ He knows the world, knows it’s all _fucking bullshit._ Of course, right around when he’s got his life running and not fucking limping around on weak legs, is when it falls apart. 

_Susan and Maxine Mayfield._

Fuck knows where his dad found them, how he _convinced_ that woman with her little fucking girl to _marry_ him. She must be a goddamned idiot, if she’d bind her and her kid to a man like that. Or Neil Hargrove’s the best swindler on the west fuckin’ coast. Billy didn’t attend the wedding, didn’t know about it. He found out when his dad told him they’re moving. Moving into a bigger apartment, better fit for a _family._ Billy laughed. Laughed until his stomach hurt, until his dad struck his face and pressed him into the bookcase in the ratty living room. He meets them only when they do move, to that other apartment where his dad wants his _family._ Meets a frail freckle-faced woman and a girl with hair lit on fire, who can’t be older than twelve. _Susan_ doesn’t know how to act with him, and it’s fun for a while. Entertaining to witness his dads failure of a _family_. He’s okay with it, at first. Okay with bullshitting, because for a blessed while, his dad seems to forget how much he hates his son. Too busy fucking his new wife and coddling his new _daughter._ It really doesn’t last all that long, just long enough for the first hit to catch Billy unprepared. For Billy to stumble, and trip, smash some ugly fuckin’ vase of Susans. He doesn’t come back to the apartment for a while after that. He couldn't always return, not when he got himself a new problem. A locked door. A locked door to keep out _all kinds of scum_. A locked door because _you can’t come and go as you want, that’s not an example you want to set for Maxine._ He’s not in my eleven, he’s not in at all. He starts having extra clothes in the Camaro by then. 

After a while, his indifference grows into resentment. He _resents_ a woman with frail hands and a soft voice, because she fucking _knows._ She’s been in the apartment while her _husband_ beats his own _son,_ and she says nothing. He almost _hates_ her for it. Knows he shouldn’t. He’s not her kid to protect. Still makes her a coward, though. Fuckin’ hates cowards, maybe that’s the one thing he got from Neil Hargrove. He can’t resent Maxine, not in the same way. Can’t _hate_ that brat, the one who insists on being called _Max_ and has the crappiest skateboard he’s seen in his _life,_ claiming she’s the best in the park. Can’t hate her for being stuck with Neil Hargrove. Sometimes, though, sometimes he almost does. When he sees how his dad treats her, sees how _careless_ she can be, because there’s no fucking consequences. Not for the precious little daughter. 

__

He makes a friend. He wouldn’t, for a while. Because they’re all _liars_ and he doesn’t _care_ about the idiots who trip all over themselves to be in his fuckin’ presence. Samuel spends more time at the beach than anyone else, _always there._ Like he lives there. Like he belongs to the sea. He doesn’t, though. Billy knows this, ‘cause he got offered to come over to his apartment, _my mom works nights, it’s empty if you wanna crash._ So Billy does. He stays at Samuels when his car isn’t enough and he can’t go _home,_ it’s not even _his home._ He likes it, having a friend. Makes life seem a bit _more._ He gets his reminders though, when he _has_ to go back to that apartment and meets his _dad._ He knows his dad thinks he’s some kind of junkie, slumming it with heroin addicts and _queers,_ and Billy’d rather have him think that, than know where he really is. His dad has too many reasons to hate Samuel, just like he has with Billy. Would _hate_ his accent, _hate_ the way he switches between Spanish and English without a second thought. Knows if his dad saw him on the street, he’d be a junkie or a queer. Knows he’d say he’s dressed like a fag, with his necklaces and shirts with stretched out necks to show his tanned collarbones. According to his dad, Billy’s dressed like a fag, too. So it’s not that surprising that they’re friends, he guesses. He thinks Samuel actually might be one, a fag. Sees the way he’ll look at him, eyes roaming over Billy’s exposed chest. He’ll see hunger, in those dark eyes. He doesn’t know what to make of it. He knows what his first reaction _should_ be, knows it because he’s been hearing his dad talk about it since before he knew what the words _meant._ He knows that even second guessing is a step too far, that he _shouldn’t_ think more of it than what it is. But some part of Billy _wonders_. Thinks about _what if_ , thinks of what would happen if Samual _was_ one. Like a pathetic fuckin’ kid, he’d wonder if maybe there’s a reason _why_ he felt so goddamn empty. Maybe it’s _not_ just life, maybe there’s _something there._ It’s wrong. It’s _so wrong_ to think of, to entertain. But that’s Billy fucking Hargrove, wired all wrong. 

Samuel kisses him, on the couch in his empty apartment because his mom works the night shifts so they’re always _alone._ Billy pushes him away, pushes and pushes until Samuel is pressed into the arm of the couch. It feels wrong. Feels _too much. Nothing_ like the other kisses he’s had. Nothing like the high school girls or college girls or _Mrs. Johnson,_ who kissed him when he finished cleaning her pool that one summer when he was working to get money for his car. Too much. It made his _head spin._ It made him want to run, run until he was on the other side of _California._ Samuel apologizes, _begs_ him to forget about it. Billy doesn’t want his apology, doesn’t know _what he wants._ He leaves, sleeps in his car.

He comes back, only two weeks after. Knocks on Samuels door with bruises on his side and heart in his throat. He kisses him, in Samuels empty hallway, heart in his throat. He’s not a queer, _can’t_ be a queer. Can’t _not_ kiss Samuel, either. But he _can’t_ be a fag, a queer, a goddamn _fairy._ Can’t give his dad a _real_ reason to kill him. He hopes Samuel understands that he _can’t be one,_ hopes he understands even as his hands skirt under Billy’s shirt. Hopes he understands when he pulls his shirt up, looks at the mapping of bruises covering his side like a fucked up painting. Hopes he understands when he says, “Let me take care of you, cariño”

Billy should’ve learned by then, that deviation from routine is never good. That it _always_ leads to something fuckin’ bad. When Samuel tells him they can’t stay at his place, his mom’s home, he doesn’t think much of it. When Samuel suggests they just stay out on the pier, _no one’s there at this time, anyways,_ he doesn’t think much of it. He’s right, the pier is abandoned, dark and uninviting here. Not like the tourist traps down south. They’re too reckless, too _stupid,_ but _fuck,_ it feels good. It feels _good_ to pin Samuel up against one of the rotting wooden poles, kissing him like he _can._ Like he has the _right_ to. He doesn’t. But when Samuel _groans his name_ , it sure feels like it. He should’ve heard the footsteps, should’ve _heard_ the sound of small feet running over the pier, coming _closer._ He doesn’t. He doesn’t fucking notice, until he sees hair lit on fucking fire over Samuels shoulder. Until he sees _Maxine_ standing right in front of him, board in hand, mouth open. It’s already _too late_ , but he pushes Samuel away like he’s been _burned,_ but Maxine _still_ _saw._ She turns, runs. He knows where she’s going. Knows she’s headed _straight_ to that apartment where her mom and his fucking dad are playing house, the one he hasn’t been in for _days._ He _knows_ she’s going to tell _him._ Knows he’s practically already dead. He can’t get any words out, can't tell Samuel he’s about to fucking die because his _step-sister_ is going to tell his dad. Going to tell his dad that Billy spends his nights _kissing boys at piers._ Like the goddamn fairy Neil Hargrove always knew he was. He leaves, leaves Samuel confused and dazed, and runs. Prays to _God_ that he’ll find the kid before she gets home, _find_ her and set her _straight._ Make sure she doesn’t _squeal_. Make sure she forgets what she _thought she fucking saw._

He didn’t make it. Knows it when he lost her turning behind an unrecognizable building. Knows it as he’s walking trough the unlocked door to the apartment. Knows he’s walking straight into his own grave. He’s shaking. Just like he did when he was ten and he didn’t _know_ what could set his dad off and he was _still_ trying to make things _normal._ He walks into the living room, to find his dad. He’s sitting in that same ugly chair he had back _there,_ too. The one he’d sit and drink in, while his mom _cooked_ and he hid in his own room. He doesn’t hide now. Walks right in. Right in to his own fucking grim reaper. 

“You’re doing this to yourself, I want you to know that. You’re _forcing_ me to do this, Billy. I cannot have you run around town like the fucking _faggot_ you are, not without consequences” The words are all distorted, wrong, in Billys head. They still dig _deep._ They still make him _tremble._ He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give a response. Stays right where he is, even though he could make a run for it. Sprint out the door and never come back. Almost like his dad can read his goddamn mind, he shifts, moves quick, quicker than he _should_ , and strikes. He punches him, his _dad_ punches him and splits his cheek, lip, eyebrow with the ugly wedding ring on his finger. When he collapses against the wall, knees buckling like he’s never taken a hit in his _life_ , he gets pulled back up by his hair. His ears are ringing, but he’s pretty sure his dad’s saying something. He’s glad he can’t hear it. The kick to his stomach makes him double over again, this time he gets to stay on the ground. The familiar metallic taste is spreading in his mouth, everything’s too _warm_ and Billy thinks it wont _stop_ until he’s _dead._ He’s lying on the carpet, curled up as he feels those steel toed boots hit his ribs, stomach, back. Anything they can reach. He hopes he dies soon, wants it. Wants it to be _over with._ He doesn’t belong here, anyways. Nothing ties him to the world, not a single fucking thing. He might as well just _go._ He doesn’t doubt that he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part will probably be the longest one, and it also has a pretty detailed original character. I’ve never really written in oc’s into fanfics before, I’d love to get some feedback on that. 
> 
> I’m pretty sure there’s a canonically accurate reason for why the Hargroves left California, but I wrote my own (pretty regular trope), with my own details and thoughts.
> 
> As a guy attracted to guys, a lot of the internalized homophobia strikes close to home. It’s different now, than in the eighties, so it’s not all lived experience (thank god), but it’s still a personal story to write, for me.


	4. four

IV

_Hawkins, Indiana_

Fuck.

Billy got the news in the hospital, after one _week_ of being trapped in that ugly fucking hospital room, the one his goddamn _father_ put him in. Well, _Susan_ actually put him there. Found him outside the apartment, bloody and rambling _nonsense_ after being _jumped by some horrible types, I’m sure._ It’s all bullshit, how Susan bought his dads story, how the fuckin’ nurses and _doctors_ at the ugly hospital bought it. He doesn’t get why his dad even lied in the first place. Billy’d be dead by now if he was just left on his own, another rotting corpse in the fuckin’ streets. That’s the reason they’re movin’, too. _Too many corpses on the streets. To many dangers in a city like this, not good for kids._ Even if the truth’s closer to _too many questions. Too hard to keep the story straight, too hard to keep teaching your own fucking son some well needed discipline in peace._

Hawkins, Indiana. Some _bumfuck_ place in the fucking _Midwest_. Billy barely knows what Indiana _is_ , what the fuck they _do_ there. Can’t even _see_ Hawkins on a fuckin’ map. Billy could’ve stayed, slept on a fuckin’ bench or in his Camaro, like he did sometimes. He _would’ve_ if it wasn’t for the _If you think about staying, or getting lost along the way, I’ll call every goddamn PD in the state and make sure they arrest you for_ something _. You’ll be damn happy if they’d find you before_ I _would,_ he got from his _dad_ in the doorway of that ugly fuckin’ room he had to spend a _week_ in. He doesn’t get time to pack, has to go to the apartment and get his things within the hour, but it’s easy. Most of his shit’s still in boxes, boxes he packed in the _last_ apartment, the one too small for him and his _too angry dad_ , even though they used to live _three_ there all fine. 

At least he got to drive there himself, a sick test of his loyalty, see if he’d fuck off as soon as Neil Hargrove’s ugly fucking pick-up left the driveway. He stays. Stays behind that pick-up, all the way to motherfucking _hillbillyland_ . Stays in his car when the others heads into some dingy roadside motel that Susan calls _homey_. It’s not too bad, he’d had worse when he’d live out of his car for _days_ back _home._ _Home._ Never really felt like he had a _home_ , but he had a _life._ Was _surrounded_ by it, at the beach and in the streets and in the _fucking people._ When he reaches a sign saying _Welcome to Hawkins!,_ he can _feel_ that life sucking out of him. Feels it when he sees the _dead_ fucking town he’s forced to exist in. The prison his _dad_ trapped him in. It’s Sunday, when he drives into town. He sees three people on the street, all as _dead_ as the goddamn backwards town they’re stuck in. The house Neil apparently found within the week Billy was in the fucking hospital was small, ugly and had nicotine _dripping_ down the walls. Susan was talking about the _garden,_ eyes flickering over to her _husband_ with every grunt and sigh that left his mouth. _Fucking coward._ Maxine stayed in the back, clutching her little skateboard to her chest, jaw clenched and eyes staring stubbornly down the hall of their _new home_. 

Maxines unhappiness was, maybe, the only thing to bring Billy any fucking joy, lately. She hates the lifeless plot of dried _dirt_ that was _Hawkins, Indiana_ just as much as he did. It filled him with some kinda sick satisfaction, made him want to shake her and say, _you did this. You got us here._ So he did. Told her over and over and _over_ until there wasn’t anything else he _could_ say. It scared her, _he_ scared her. _Let her be scared, it’s fucking revenge._ Eye for an eye. It fills him with that satisfaction right up until she _changes._ Right up until Maxine goes and finds some faggy friends at her little middle school, friends that make her _like_ staying here. Friends that make Hawkins feel like a _home._ It’s another thing to hate her for. She’s got her new _friends_ while Billy gets _no one._ Can only think of what _she_ took _away from him_. 

Not that there’s anyone in this backwards fucking hillbilly town who could be _anything_ to Billy. They’re all as dead as the ugly fields surrounding their ugly town. All dried up and _dead_ in their kakis and _respectable_ skirts and hairstyles three years out of fucking style. Even their _king_ , seemed dead. _Steve Harrington,_ king gone _soft_ over some _girl._ Hears about him within _minutes_ of his first day at the one high school in their ugly fucking town. Hears about him from _call me Tommy,_ who’s so eager to please he practically falls to his _knees._ He sees the guy at a _Halloween party,_ which is so fuckin’ pathetic he nearly regrets going. Sees some goddamned _pretty boy_ with a chick pressed close, her twitchy little mug all screwed up and prissy. _Trouble in paradise._ It was underwhelming. Seeing some pathetic excuse of a _king_ , seeing the guy he was supposed to _overthrow_ or whatever the fuck the people in this hick town expected of him. There was nothing to _overthrow._ Just a guy with too _uninterested_ eyes and a too drunk girlfriend. Another disappointment this goddamned town brought him. Not even their _fallen king_ had any of that _life_ Billy _needed._

It was _unsatisfying_ , taking over as fucking _king_ when the other guy doesn’t even _care._ And Harrington doesn’t. Doesn’t care about anything, after his little princess dumped him, and Billy wants to fucking _punch_ the guy for being so _dead_ inside. It _bothers_ him, that he can’t even _fight_ for the bullshit position of _king_ of Hawkins high, a position he doesn’t even _want._ He _needs_ to fight for it. Needs Steve Harrington to want to _take it back,_ so Billy could _rip_ it back and see Harrington on the fucking _ground._ Steve Harrington doesn’t _let him._ Doesn’t _sink to his level_ , no matter how _close_ Billy gets at basketball practice, or how many times he calls him _pretty boy_ and _princess._

He gets his chance when he doesn’t even _want_ it, not in the way he always wants it. When he’s looking For Maxine, as if it’s _his_ fault the bitch runs off every chance she gets. When his cheek is too hot and red from where he got _slapped by his dad._ When he’s been driving around the ugly backend fucking town for _hours,_ going from house to house searching for that little runt. When he sees her through the window of some ugly house at the brink of town, poorly hidden behind _Harringtons_ small frame and his bad lies. It makes him angry in a way he hasn’t felt before, _seething_ and barely holding back. He’s never held back before, never been shy with punches and words, but this time, this time he wants _blood._ He _hates_ her, for not _learning_ the first time around. For making him deal with her stupid mistakes, for making _Harrington_ cover it up for her. He pushes past, get into the ugly fucking house and can barely register that there’s something _off_ about it, something seriously wrong. Sees Maxine and all her faggy friends, sees the black kid _Neil_ always talks about, always looks at when they see him with his parents at that pathetic supermarket. Thinks back to the way he’d stare and grumble, like the Sinclair’s don't make more in a _month_ than Neil Hargrove gets for a year or pisspoor work. Hates her a bit _more,_ for making it so fucking hard for herself, and in extension for _him._

Harrington steps in, of course he does, when he barely _touches_ the fucking kid. It feels good, to see something _alive_ in those eyes, to see why they called him _king._ Feels good to pound into him, to bash his _face_ in with a goddamn plate. He doesn’t see Harrington, in front of him. Sees his own goddamn _dad_ , _feels_ every kick and punch and _slap_ he’s gotten over the years. Doesn’t feel the ones Harrington throws at him, doesn’t realize when he _stops_ hitting back and Billy’s fists are beating a limp, unresponsive body. He doesn’t stop, _can’t._ His bones _ache_ for it, screams for _release._ Doesn’t stop until he feels something _sharp,_ in his neck. Until he finds himself on the floor with Maxine looming over him, talking and _talking_ and his world’s gettin’ _dizzy_ , all fuzzy. She repeats herself, _I don’t like repeating myself boy,_ and he says _I understand_ but he doesn’t, doesn’t _matter_ that he doesn’t ‘cause his vision is flickering, morphing and changing until he can only see the fiery _red_ of her hair and nothing else. 

_Nothing else._

_____

He wakes up in his car.

He’s in the backseat, lying on his arm and neck twisted in a way that makes him cramp. He doesn’t know how he got from that fucking house to his car, doesn’t remember _anything._ Not anything after Maxine and her goddamn _bat_ and whatever drug she must've pumped him full with. He’s still at the house, the house where he beat Harrington _bloody,_ where he _beat_ him and didn’t _stop_ until he was pumped full with mystery drugs, laying blacked out on the ground. It takes him too long to get to the drivers seat, whole body _shaking_ with the effort. Helluva tranquilizer. He doesn’t get where Maxine would’ve found shit like that, but maybe it’s all part of that _wrongness,_ that he felt. He doesn’t really give a fuck about that, not when it’s light out and he still doesn’t have Maxine and he’ll be fucking _dead_ by the time he’s home. He goes home anyways. Can barely drive, nerves frayed and vision still _fuzzy_ from the drugs that little bitch pumped him full of. He prays, _prays_ , that Neil isn’t home, that he’s left for work or for some weekend _getaway_ , Billy doesn’t actually know what day it is. 

Neil Hargrove isn’t home. Maxine is, though. Home and safe, sitting by the ugly fucking table in the kitchen, eating her disgusting kids cereal. She meets his eyes, unblinking. _Daring_ him to say anything. He doesn’t. Doesn't say a single word ‘cause he doesn’t trust his voice and he doesn’t want to talk or _see_ her, not now. He wonders instead. Wonders how the fuck she got home, _when_ she got home. Wonders what _Neil_ said, when his _precious_ _daughter_ came home _late_ , _not_ followed by Billy in tow. Wonders if he’ll end up in the hospital, again. Gleefully hopes that means they’d have to move again. He wonders about Harrington. Wonders how he looks, how he _hurts_. Wonders if _he’s_ in the hospital, because of what Billy did. Wonders if it was the worst night in Harrington’s life. Probably is, the fuckin’ pussy. 

He doesn’t have to wonder for long. Neil comes home, Susan trailing behind him like the perfect goddamn housewife she is. He gets told over dinner, about how Maxine got a ride home from a friend, how they _just forgot the time_ and how _kind_ of the friend to drive when Billy himself had _car troubles_. Susan takes her daughters hand and talks about how _worried_ she was, how _glad_ she is that they’ve _all learned their lesson and it’ll never happen again._ By the way is dad is staring at him, by the way Billy sees his hand clench into a _fist_ , he _knows_ he’s no where near learning his _lesson._

_Dad_ goes easy on him. Let’s him get away with a _warning_ an a bruise from being pressed into the bookshelf on his back. He missed a day of school, not like he _cares._ He wants to know if Harrington missed it too, if he’s strapped to a hospital bed somewhere or just at home, licking his wounds. When he goes Tuesday, gets _congratulations_ from Tommy and countless, nameless idiots. _Congratulations._ When he sees Harrington’s face he gets it. It fills him with that sick satisfaction, seeing what he did to that face. Sees the yellow and blue, sees the jagged _cut_ from a dinner plate. Knows it’ll stay on his face for a _while_. He gets _high,_ thinking about how he left a _permanent mark_ on Steve Harrington. He’s flyin’ _real_ high, gets a taste for _life_ again. Feels _alive_ , again. He sinks, _crashes down like Icarus_ , when Harrington _still_ won’t _look_ at him. He expected _something,_ a _flinch_ or a _stare_ or fucking _terror._ He gets _nothing._ Like he doesn’t even exist. And he _needs_ to exist. Needs Harrington to _see_ that he _exists_ , in spite of the dead fucking town he was crowned _king_ of. Needs Harrington to _acknowledge_ what Billy _did,_ needs him to _understand_ that Billy beat him to the fucking _ground._ But he _doesn’t_ do anything, looks past him like Billy’s _nothing_ , not a blip on his fucking radar.

It’s like a punch to the gut, to fuckin’ see how Harrington doesn’t _care._ How he’s too _dumb_ to _cower_ when he sees him in the halls. _Nothing works like it should._ Not in the godforsaken town that is _Hawkins, Indiana._ He doesn’t _fit,_ isn’t made for a town so _tired_ and _dead._ He’s made for _California,_ for the _beach_ and the _colorful fabrics sold in those huts._ But he’s not there, he’s _stuck_ and he can’t even get the satisfaction of Harrington _looking_ at him, and he’ll go _insane,_ probably already _has._ He needs to go, to leave. Can’t get _stuck_ , cant _die_ like Hawkins, fuckin’ Indiana is _dead,_ or like their _king_ is dead and that _king_ wont even _look_ at him. 


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sees her again at the mall. Or, Billy sees her. It has seen her before that, and he has those memories, too. They’re different, those memories, morphed and strange and not like his own. it’s hard to keep track of which are his anyway. He sees her and he knows that it won’t let him get away, knows that it will get that girl, doesn’t care if Billy is screaming, begging in his own head. No one else can stop him. They try, so many of them try, those kids and Nancy fuckin’ Wheeler, Steve. He wants them to stop him. Wants them to kill him ‘cause maybe they’d kill it too, then.

V

Summer comes, and nothing changes. Except the weather, that goes from pisscold to a balmy sort of excuse of warmth. Billy doesn’t change. Nothing around him changes. Hawkins high doesn’t change, was the same kind of boring right up until the last day, graduation for some lucky bastards. Not for Billy, though. Maxine doesn’t change, after that night in November. He’s _nothing_ , to her now. He doesn’t scare her, anymore. He envies her. His fucking dad doesn’t change, either. Keeps sniffing out mistakes like a goddamn bloodhound, waiting for Billy to fuck up so he can fuck him up some more. Sometimes he doesn’t even wait, just takes Billy when he comes through the door after school, pushing and punching and spitting. So, nothing changes. Summer in Hawkins isn’t more exiting than Summer six feet fuckin’ under. 

Billy gets himself a job, an excuse to spend less time in the house he has to call home. It’s easy, lifeguarding the sad little public pool. It’s ridiculous, how overqualified he is for the job from just living by _real_ water. It’s also fuckin’ boring. He spends his day watching ugly brats running past the _no running_ sign, and spends it being watched by what has to be the entire population of _stay at home moms_ in Hawkins. They stare and stare and practically spread their married legs for him, right there. It fills him with that empty, sick feelin’, the one he’s learnt to push down, erase. Because it should _excite_ him, to hear _call me Karen_ and have them pushing close, closer than they _should_. So he entertains them, gives them smiles that make them fuckin’ wet, wears trunks a size too small, tongue wagging at them like he wants to fucking _devour_ them. 

Maybe it goes too far, with _Karen_. Maybe he shouldn’t have suggested too much, shouldn’t have made her wet fuckin’ dreams a reality. But he can’t back out, can’t _not_ meet her at that ugly motel. Because he _likes_ this. He _has_ to. 

He doesn’t make it that far. He crashes his goddamn car. It’s _never_ happened before, ‘cause he might be rough, but his _car_ is the most important thing he fuckin’ owns.

Then, _then_ , he gets _taken_. Gets _taken_ by something and it’s _dragging_ him, pulling him into _darkness_. He’s so scared, so fucking _terrified_ and he needs to get away. Needs someone to _answer_ , needs to _get away_. There’s someone with him, wherever he is, someone who’s _talking_ and it sounds like _Billy_ , _looks_ like him. Some sick mirror image that talks and _moves_ and Billy doesn’t understand what’s _happening_. Maybe he fucking _died_ , maybe he’s wrapped around a tree with the Camaro _dead_ at the outskirts of Hawkins. But it feels _real_ , he _knows_ it’s real ‘cause he can smell the _cold_ , the _death_ of _wherever he is._ He can _feel_ the air, all wrong and sharp in his lungs. Like it doesn’t belong in his lungs. And he keeps breathing but it doesn’t _help_ and he doesn’t know where he _is_ or what the fuck’s _happening_ to him.

It feels too familiar when everything goes black.

Billy wakes up sweaty. He’s home, passed out on his bed, over the covers. He’s in his clothes, still, and they cling to him, soaked through. He doesn’t understand how he got home. Doesn’t remember driving or sleeping or escaping. Everything is too warm. He doesn’t understand why he thinks so, ‘cause he loves the heat. Hates the cold, but he’s aching for it, now. Needs to cool down, feels it deep in his bones like he’d die if he doesn’t. 

It takes him too long to get out of bed. He’s sluggish, slow in a way he never is. He stumbles to the bathroom on legs too wobbly and uncontrolled. The shower is freezing, water beating down his back. He loves it, even though he should hate it ‘cause he _hates_ the cold but he _craves_ it, now. 

He doesn’t remember driving to work. But he’s there, at the pool, and everything is loud and too _hot_ and unfamiliar even though he’s worked there for a good couple of months. He’s wearing a shirt, sweating through it. He doesn’t remember putting it on. 

Karen follows him into the storage scrub. She talks but Billy doesn’t really hear her, the words morphing and twisting in his head. He thinks he says something too. Doesn’t remember doing it. He just remembers being too _warm_. 

He’s not alone in his head. There’s something there, something that makes him want it _cold_ and something that tells him to _take_ her. Take _Heather_ , take others too. He can’t stop it. Cant _control_ his own hands as he drags Heather to the _thing_ , the _something_ that’s latched onto his brain, the _something_ that makes him talk and move without Billy wanting to. 

Max is there. He can see her, behind the glass of the sauna door, sees her and wants to shout at her, _get out, run,_ but he _can’t_. The thing wont _let_ him, it keeps him in _control_ until it doesn’t. Until it lets him _beg_ and cry and he _knows_ that the _second_ Max gives in it’ll tack back _control_ , will _take_ her too, will take all of the _kids_ standing there, waiting. 

The girl is there, too. A girl he’s never seen before, but he _knows_ her, anyway. Has memories of her in his head, but they’re not Billys. He _needs_ to take her. She’s the one _it_ wants, most of all. He can feel the hatred, the _hunger_ , _it_ feels. It becomes his own against his will. He can’t hurt her. Cant hurt this little girl even though its hatred _becomes_ _his own_ , even though she slams him against, _through_ a wall without touching him. Even though every nerve in his body _yells_ at him to _take_ her. 

He sees her again at the mall. Or, _Billy_ sees her. _It_ has seen her before that, and he has those memories, too. They’re different, those memories, morphed and strange and not like his own. it’s hard to keep track of which are his anyway. He sees her and he _knows_ that it won’t let him get away, knows that _it_ will get that girl, doesn’t _care_ if Billy is screaming, _begging_ in his own head. No one else can stop him. They try, so many of them _try_ , those kids and Nancy fuckin’ Wheeler, _Steve_. He _wants_ them to stop him. Wants them to _kill_ him ‘cause maybe they’d kill _it_ too, then. 

The girl touches him, when he reaches her. Touches him like he’s not about to _take_ her, _feed_ her to a goddamn monster, and he sees _her_. He knows it’s the _girl_ who pulls out memories of his _mom_ , of _everything_ and shows them to him. Shows him _home_ , shows him the beach and he _remembers_ , he _sees_ it and he cant kill her, he _can’t_. 

He can’t let this girl die, can’t let her be _taken_ , and he’s thought it before, _begged_ it to spare them all, but it hasn’t worked. But it does now, it _works_ and he’s _free_ , for a moment, a _second_ , and he gets between them. Gets between that little, _powerful_ girl and the _thing_ , the monster. He fights it off with his own hands. Holds it back ‘cause that little girl can’t _die_ , she _can’t_ , but it doesn’t matter if _he_ does. He doesn’t _belong_ here, doesn’t _deserve_ to be afraid of death after what he’s done. So he's not afraid. 

He dies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not the happiest with this chapter, writing flayed Billy was such a challenge for me. It’s very choppy and jumpy, I wrote it like that ‘cause the Mind Flayer probably didn’t let Billy be “conscious” all the time. Let me know if it worked , or if it comes across as lazy etc. I always appreciate feedback.


	6. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter of this work! I've had ideas for the ending since before I even knew how I'd start out, and I hope you've enjoyed reading this so far.  
> This is my first try at a longer, multi chaptered fic, and it brought challenges as well as it helped me improve my writing.

VI

He doesn't die. 

He doesn't die, he just hurts. It hurts so bad and Billy cries, cries from the pain and cries 'cause it's all too familiar. It's too fucking _familiar_ to wake up in a sterile room after _dying_. But he never dies. Not even when he deserves it. Not even after he _took_ all those people, took _kids_ and fed them to a goddamn _monster_. It hurts so _much_ and Billy just wants to be fucking dead, wants to be _dead_ 'cause maybe that _thing_ won't follow him to hell, will stay outta his goddamn head. He doesn’t know if it’s still _there_ , if it’s still _in_ him. He doesn’t know if this is a _trap_ , if it’s tricking him just like it did so many times, and he’s fucking _terrified_ and there’s some kinda noice, an erratic beeping coming from _somewhere_ and he doesn’t know what it is and he’s so _scared_ and that noice just speeds up, gets louder and _louder_ until he feels hands on him, hears harsh voices yell, 

“Calm down, Mr. Hargrove”, hears _hold him back_ , over the sound of those monotone staccato beats. It takes four, six, _eight_ hands, to _keep him down_ , to keep him _restrained_ on some kinda hospital bed and Billy doesn’t know how he _got_ there, this time ‘round. He doesn’t know _anything_ and he’s scared outta his goddamn _mind_. He thrashes against the hands holding him down, thrashes like he did in his head when that _thing_ took control, when it kept him _awake_ but not in _control_ , and he keeps fighting until he feels something against his neck, something _too familiar_. Feels a syringe and can’t fight the way his mind shuts down, goes limp. 

—

He wakes up, again. He doesn’t know how many times he’s woken up, how many times they’ve had to _hold him back_. He wakes up and stays calm, stays _calm_ ‘cause he doesn’t want those hands on him again, _restraining_ him, again. There’s someone in the room with him. Some kinda doctor, but he doesn’t _act_ like doctors do, doesn’t talk like ‘em when he says “It’s in your best interest to stay _calm_ , Mr. Hargrove”.

He’s definitely not at the ER in Hawkins, he knows no doc in Hawkins would talk like _that_. No doc in Hawkins would know how to bring back a monster from the dead, either. _Where am I?,_ he wants to say, shout. He can’t, can’t make a single sound except for some kinda raspy gasp, and that _terrifies_ him. He can’t fucking _speak_ , and its probably that _thing_ , toying with him. Showing him that he’s not in _control_.

”I wouldn’t try that, if I were you. I appreciate that this is a strange situation, Mr. Hargrove, but do keep your temper in check”, there’s something off, with the way he’s talking. The way he’s _lookin_ ’ at Billy, with a barely concealed curiosity. Like he’s studying him. Like he knows that there’s something fucked up with him, _in_ him. 

“You were lucky, that you were still connected to it,” he starts up again, and he _definitely_ fucking knows, and it’s not really a comfort, it just freaks him out, that there are people who _know_ about it, who _look_ at it, _him_ , with fucking _hunger_ in their eyes. “It saved your life, Mr. Hargrove. Kept you alive long enough for us to get you here. It’s gone now, don’t worry. We ran tests. Your friends got rid of it, maybe even killed it, before we could get a good look,” the bastard sounds _remorseful_ , sounds like he’d be ready to let the one’s who fought back, the _kids_ who held back a fucking _monster_ , _die_ if he got a chance to see the thing up close.

“Anyhow, there are no traces left of it, now. It’s been two months, Mr. Hargrove. It got out of your system quick, left an injured host to die. But we saved you. Looks like we did a good job, too.” And they didn't, they _didn’t_ ‘cause a _good job_ would be to let him _die_ with the monster, like he should’ve.

“You’ll walk, and talk, again before we know it. Lucky, in every way. We calculated it would take longer for you to wake, so we can only stay positive.” And fuck, Billy feels _sick_. Wants to throw up, ‘cause he’s not feeling _lucky_. He feels _wrong_ , fucked up, ‘cause he should be fucking _dead_ by now. 

“One more thing, Mr. Hargrove. I do hope you understand, keeping you sedated, unconscious, is more convenient for everyone involved”, the man, the doctor, leans forward, close enough for Billy to _flinch._ Bad move. The pain from moving an inch, from _twitching,_ paralyzes him. It hurts so _much_ and maybe it is _good_ , that they keep him asleep. He hears a machine make some kinda noice, and again, that numbness takes over without asking, and everything goes dark. 

—

Billy doesn’t know how many months, _years_ , he spends trapped in that place that’s supposed to look like some sorta hospital. He doesn’t know how much they keep him unconscious, doesn’t know how long he’s awake for. He has no concept of days, of _sleep_ , anymore. He exists outside of it, trapped somewhere with people who fixed him up and _saved_ him. He feels like Frankenstein’s fucking monster, brought back from the fucking dead, altered and not _human_. Even though they tell him that it’s _gone_. That the monster’s gone and Billy is _saved_. He can talk again, after fuck know how long, his vocal chords healed enough that he can communicate, again. Not that anyone listens to him. The doctors and nurses won't answer his questions, won't tell him what’s wrong with him or how long he’s gonna be stuck there. He feels like he’s going crazy, when they only talk _at_ him and not with him. He cant fight it, though. Can’t do anything but let them run their tests and check wounds he hasn’t seen himself. He lets them keep him alive, doesn’t do anything to help them. 

—

By the time they’re forcing him to leave that ugly bed in that small, sterile room, to build up the muscle he’s lost from being restrained for months, _years?,_ he meets the first doctor again. The one with hungry eyes and too much will to know more about that _thing_. He tells him they can let him _go_ , soon. He’s _ready_ , again. Billy doesn’t feel ready. He didn’t even think of going back, going _anywhere_. He can barely remember what it’s like to not be stuck in some kinda facility for _fucked up_ things, but they’re gonna let him _go_. 

“We’ve done what we can for you, Mr. Hargrove. But it’s a special situation, we have full understanding,” and he’s lying, they don't understand, it’s all _bullshit_ , but Billy can’t _say_ that ‘cause he doesn’t know what these people will do to him, knows they could do _anything_ , “we can’t let you leave Hawkins, yet. We can’t have you without supervision in case something were to happen. You’re of age, which certainly makes things easier. We can contact anyone you’d like, to make the return easier. It’s all in here” doc’s waving some kinda file at him, hands him the thick stack of papers. Skimming through them, they’re all _non disclosures_ and _sign here_ and _compensation_ , and he wonders if they’ve given this shit to other people. If other people are _stuck_ here, just like he is.

”Along with a fair compensation, we will provide you with an apartment. It’s easier, that way, I hope you understand” and _shit_ , for the first time in what could be _years_ , Billy feels relieved. They’re letting him go. But he’s not going back to that house he’s been forced to call a _home_. He doesn’t even know if it’s still _there_ , if his _dad_ is still in Hawkins, or if he moved as soon as Billy _died_. If he even thinks he is. Dead. Wonders if he got a funeral, or if he’s just the bastard who ran away. 

“I want you to tell Max” he manages, ‘cause it _hurts_ to talk, even after training and _healing_. He doesn’t doubt that they know who he’s talking about. She’s _involved_ , in some way. He saw her, saw her fight a goddamn _monster_ , knows that she probably knows more than _he_ does. He doesn’t have the energy to be scared of that. To be scared that _these people_ know she’s involved in their sick game, can just hope that she’s _safe_. 

“Of course. Please, Mr. Hargrove, read everything. Have it signed by the next time we meet” And he’s sayin’ it like Billy _knows_ when they’ll meet again, like they're not keeping him in the _dark_ about every single fucking thing they’re doing to him. 

—

Turns out, the next time they meet, is the day they release him. _Release_ him, like he’s been serving time. He’s got the bullshit NDA’s signed, as if he was ever gonna _mention_ the fucked up things he’s done to _anyone_. He gets _escorted_ through a labyrinth of hallways and identical doors, and he’s suddenly relieved he never tried to make a run for it. He meets doc in some kinda lobby, doesn’t return the cold smile he gets. 

“Mr. Hargrove, good to see you made it here”, he says, like Billy had a fucking _choice_ , like they haven’t been _keeping_ him in some fucked up facility for what could be _years_.

“You’ve got the papers, that’s good. You’ll be escorted home, right in a moment. We’ll keep our eyes on you, and we’ll check up on you, on the wounds. You’re in better shape than we could hope, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, of course.” Billy _hates_ the way he talks, the way he doesn’t even know _what_ he survived because they wouldn’t tell him a single goddamn thing. They all spout _bullshit_ and he fucking _hates_ it. He doesn’t even know how long he’s _been_ here, doesn’t know what to expect of Hawkins. Doesn’t know if his _family_ is still _there_ , if _Max_ is. 

“Oh yes, it’s easy to forget that you don’t know, Mr. Hargrove. Today’s date, it’s January thirtieth, 1986.”

—

_January thirtieth, 1986._

Six months. He’s been stuck in some kinda facility outside of the real world for _six months._ And they’re letting him come back. Puttin’ him on a leash and letting him wander around the dead fuckin’ town of Hawkins. That sick feeling sticks, it’s not the one he’s used to, it’s somethin’ else, something vile and toxic mixed with fear. He’s still _terrified_ , even after half a damn year, even when he knows that it’s _gone_ and he’s _alive_. He’s going back to Hawkins. Hawkins, where he _took_ all those people. Hawkins, where he tried to _kill_ an innocent, _powerful_ little girl. Hawkins, where he’ll be stuck until those people don’t feel the need to supervise him. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to be _escorted_ to Hawkins, doesn’t register when they drive past that ugly _Welcome to Hawkins!_ sign. The driver takes him _downtown_ , drives past closed shops and cracked facades. Stops on a road Billy’s never noticed before, right outside some kinda apartment complex. Home. Another place he has to call home against his will. His fuckin’ escort doesn’t say a word, parks right on the street, and Billy heaves himself outta the backseat. It hurts to move, hurts to breathe. He grinds his teeth together to stop some pathetic noise from leavin’ his throat. He gets handed a keychain and a suitcase that isn’t his. It’s heavy, he doesn’t know how he’s gonna get it inside. Doesn’t even know which apartment is his. The driver doesn’t tell him. 

_5B_ is scribbled on a piece of paper taped around one of the keys. It’s on the second floor, and it takes him too long to haul the suitcase up. He ignores how his cheeks are hot and wet, when he’s standing in front of an ugly door with a peeling _5B_ painted on. His hands are shaking, he misses the keyhole three, _four_ times before he unlocks the door. 

It’s not empty, like he thought it would be. It’s small, it’s so much more than Billy expected. There’s a kitchen, bigger than the one they had back home, bigger than the one his mom used to bake in, the one she used to say would look a lot bigger, a lot _brighter_ , if it would have yellow cabinets. There’s a couch, a dark green one that looks old but not used, and a goddamn _TV set._ He doesn’t understand why they’d give him an apartment filled with shit when he’d done nothing to deserve it. Maybe it should feel good, feel like a _reward_ , after being held there for _six months_. He feels empty. 

There’s a bedroom, small but with a window lookin’ out over the dead little square that could’ve been some kinda _downtown_ at one point in time. A bathroom too, with a shower curtain and tiles that aren’t chipped from a head bashed into them. He wishes he felt like he deserves the apartment. He just feels fucking empty. 

A knock on the door sends his heart _flyin’_ , beating jackrabbit fast. He’s been wandering around the tiny apartment, looking but not touching ‘cause it doesn’t feel like _his_ , and there’s someone knocking on the door. The people at that goddamn _facility_ gave him the apartment. He doesn’t know if anyone else even knows about it. What they’ve _said_ and how they’ve said it. He doesn’t know what they’ve told _Maxine_ , if they told her anythin’. He has no reason to think they’d stick to their word. He’s shakin’, it takes effort to make his way to the door, it’s hard to get a grip of the handle. Everything fucking _hurts_. 

It’s Max. _Max_ is standing outside the apartment they said was his home, now. It’s Max and he doesn’t know when she went from Maxine to _Max_ in his head but she’s _there_ , and she’s fuckin’ _crying_ , _hugging_ him. He doesn’t remember if they’ve ever hugged before. He doubts it. It _hurts_ , the way her arms lock around his middle, pulling at scars and wounds he still hasn’t _looked_ at. 

“I saw you _die_ ” is all she says, all it takes for white hot tears to drip down Billy’s cheeks. And _shit_ , he doesn't _deserve_ her cryin’ over him, doesn’t deserve a hug from the kid he tried to _take_ , that night in the locker rooms at Hawkins public pool, that night it let him _beg_ , only to _take back control_ again. 

“I _know_ ” he croaks out, and it still hurts to talk, it hurts even _more_ to not know what to _say,_ because she _knows_ that he did, she was there to _see_ the _monster_ he was. The monster he _is,_ even though it’s _gone._

“It’s been _six months_ and I thought you were _dead_ and then they _called_ me and I didn’t know what to _do,_ Billy-” she’s rambling, words spilling over and tripping, and he doesn’t know what to _do,_ doesn’t know what to _say_ ‘cause he doesn’t _deserve_ this. Doesn’t deserve Max caring if he lived or died. But she’s _here_ and she’s cryin’, making _him_ cry and he feels stupid and _sick_ and all of this coulda been avoided if he’d just _died._ He puts a shaking hand on her head, strokes her flaming hair like his mom did, sometimes when he was young enough to be allowed to cry. It stills her, stops her rambling but not her sniffs, not the shakin’.

Max only pulls away when she’s stopped shaking, pulls away and steps back, takes three big steps away. Away from him. And he should’ve _expected_ it, from the start. It’s what he _deserves._ It’s the fear he made _sure_ she felt right from the fucking start. He doesn’t deserve to want to stay locked in a hug that hurts too _much_ because of _wounds_ he hasn’t _seen_ yet. 

"We tried to save you Billy, I _promise_ -" she starts up again, and he _knows_ she tried, he _knows_ she's involved, and he knows they _definetely_ can't talk about that shit in the apartment given to him by the same people who made him sign _NDA's_ and all sorts of shit. 

"I _know_ kid, you couldn't have done more, that shit was unstoppable" it made _me_ unstoppable. He wanted to ask her how she _knew_ that he needed to be saved, how she got _involved_. Not here though. He doesn't put it above those fuckers to bug the place. They had to get outta there, if they wanted to _talk_. Half of him wanted to drive her away, 'cause all her patience and _caring_ isn't meant for him. Shouldn't be. But he _can't_. Can't make her _hate_ him more than she already does. Can't lash out, not now when she _knows_ what he's done. "Come on, let's go somewhere else, and we'll talk". He's tryin' to sound _gentle_ , tries not to scare her, even though it's a lost fuckin' cause. 

They go to some kinda park, even though it's too fucking cold, and Billy hates the cold even more, now. After that _thing_ , after it _forced_ him to crave the icy coldness of death. After being stuck in a sterile room for five months. It's deserted, just him and Maxine, walking side by side. He's walking slow, 'cause it _hurts_ to move, still. It feels weird. _Existing_ with Max without making her hate him or hating her. He's selfish, stupid, for using her pity. _Using_ a fucked up situation to get a _taste_ of what it might be, even if he's never really wanted it. _A family._ He doesn't _deserve_ to entertain the thought. 

"They've probably bugged the place" he says, tries to fill the silence in a way he's never wanted to before. 

"Yeah, they totally did. They bugged Hoppers place, before. I was told" she looks guilty, like she's sharing too much, telling him secrets no one should know. 

"Hopper? As in _chief of police_ , Hopper? The fuck would you know _shit_ about him?" He's glad that it hurts to talk, 'cause otherwise he knew he would've yelled at her by now. 

"Yeah, what's it to you?" She says, all misplaced attitude, snotty face turned upwards like _she_ didn't come to _him_. "He's _involved_ , with all this. Has been from the start" she continues, and fuck, of _course_ there's some kinda history with this shit, of course it's not the first time they fight a goddamn _monster_. This time the monster just happened to be him. He feels sick, weak. He let himself get _taken_ , became some kinda _monster_ , when a _kid's_ been fighting the fuckers over and over. He’s overwhelmed, feels the tips of his fingers go numb, his head spin. 

“When did it start?” He gets out, voice all sideways and weird and he hopes Max doesn’t notice, doesn’t wanna scare her. Not when she knows what kinda _monster_ he is. 

“Before we got here, some shit went down” she starts, and she sounds _haunted_ , remembering things she didn’t see but knows too well. “Will, my friend, he got taken, he just disappeared” and god, Billy’s seen that kid, seen his sickly pale skin and big, _haunted_ eyes and it makes too much sense. “He was gone, trapped in the upside down, _their_ world, but his mom never stopped looking for him, ever” her voice wavers, and fuck, Billy doesn’t want her to start crying again, can’t _handle_ it again.

They’re both breathing harsh, heaving, when she’s done. When she’s done talking about _monsters_ and the _upside down_ and how she _fought_ them. How those monsters were there, that night last fall, when _he_ was there too. It’s too much to process. He’s numb to it, can’t understand what she’s saying even though he _does_ understand. ‘Cause he’s all tangled up in that shit too, he _became_ the monster they’ve been fighting in this godforsaken town for _years_. He doesn’t realize that he’s shaking until Max put’s her hand on his arm, until he flinches and hisses out a _fuck_ , ‘cause just moving _hurts_ , still. Maybe it’s the cold, making it worse. And it _is_ cold, where they’re standing in some kinda park no one would go to in this fuckin’ weather. 

“ _Shit_ Billy, we should get back” she says, and he feels sick for _enjoying_ the way she says _Billy_ , the way she doesn’t spit it out like he disgusts her. He should. He nods, lets her keep a hand on his arm, even though it hurts more than help him walk. They make it back to his apartment, stand outside the door as Billy prepares himself for two flights of stairs, ‘cause it hurts to _move_ and it’ll take a while. 

“Billy?” He hears, all soft and insecure in a way Max _hates_ , “can we not be like _before_? Please, don’t let it go back to like before” she’s _begging_ , and she sounds so young and it takes Billy off guard ‘cause this kid shouldn’t _be_ here, looking at him like he deserves some kinda _second chance_. He doesn’t know what to _do_ with that, can't have some _kid_ thinking that he deserves to be _saved_ ‘cause it’s too _late_ , he’s already turned into a goddamn monster. 

“Go home, Max” is all he can say, ‘cause he can’t fucking _handle_ this, everything _hurts_ and it hurts _more_ to look into her eyes and see the moment she realizes that he’s the monster she’s been scared of all along. He stays outside, doesn’t go up those stairs and in to that apartment, not until he’s shaking like crazy and until his teeth ache from him grinding them together to stop the clattering. 

Maxine doesn’t give up. She’s a stubborn bitch, but he can’t _say_ that to her, now. ‘Cause now she _knows_ how far he could go, ‘cause now he remembers _taking_ kids that must’ve been her age, feeding them to a _monster_. Now he remembers seeing her and _begging_ her, begging _anyone_ who could hear (no one _could_ hear, only him and the _monster_ in his head). She keeps coming back, inviting himself into the apartment like it’s _hers_ , and it might as well be ‘cause it for sure doesn’t feel like _Billy’s_. She keeps coming over and _talking_ , even though he doesn’t even respond. Not after that first time, when he’d been in _shock_ and too selfish to not indulge in some kinda taste for what a _family_ could be like. 

He snaps, one day, when Max’s entertaining herself with the TV set Billy hasn’t touched yet even though he’s had the apartment for three weeks, now. Asks “How the _hell_ do you even get your ass over here?” ‘Cause he knows she ain’t getting rides from _Neil_ , and she can’t skate in the middle of fuckin’ February. She looks too smug, like she has some kinda _masterplan_ to make him talk to her. 

“Steve drives me” she answers, eyes glued to some nerd movie she wouldn’t get caught _dead_ watching back in Cali. And fuck, if that doesn’t make his pulse speed up a little, makes him a little sick. He didn’t even _know_ who knows about him, didn’t think _Steve Harrington_ would know about his magical coming back to life. He feels guilty in a way he never used too, before. Before, when he was good at pushing down feelings he wasn’t _supposed_ to feel. His brain is too _fucked_ now, to repress anything. He wonders if Harrington just stays in his fuckin’ car, waiting for the kid to be done here. 

“You can’t make him do that” he says, even though he shouldn’t care, no one _asked_ him to care. She shoots him some kinda look, like _she’s_ surprised he cares, and she _should_ be surprised ‘cause Billy’s a goddamn _monster,_ why _should_ he care. 

“He offered, ‘cause he’s _nice_ , Jesus” she says like he doesn’t _know_ how _nice_ Harrington is. Like he doesn’t know he’d do anything outta the _goodness of his heart._ _King Steve_ , resident goddamn hero. 

It becomes a little different, after that. He starts talking to her, makes sure it’s not a _waste_. Can’t waste her _time_ , or _Harringtons_ , apparently. They talk and he tries to be _nice_ , tries not to scare her. Pretends he’s not a _monster_. The weeks go by, and Billy’s starting to feel like he’s _alive_ , again. Different, than before, but after a while, talking and walking and _breathing_ doesn’t _hurt_. He stays inside, stays in the apartment that’s apparently _his_ , only talks to _Max_ and the doctor who comes by, to check his vitals and rub salves at scars that make him _sick_ when he looks at them. 

Just _talking_ isn’t enough for Max, though. She calls him an _asshole_ when he refuses to go with her to her nerdy little friends, feels _sick_ at the idea of having to see those kids, the ones he almost _killed_. She tells him he’s an idiot for shutting everyone out and he yells back that she’s a goddamn _bitch_ who shouldn’t meddle with his life. She leaves after that, doesn’t come back for three days. Billy’s a little relieved that she finally understood that she’s wasting her time on a monster. Mostly he just feels empty. 

She comes back. She makes her way into the apartment, finds Billy sitting on the couch, staring at the unplugged TV set. He can’t bring himself to use it. Doesn’t deserve all the shit they’ve put in an apartment that’s supposed to be his. She’s not alone. _Harrington_ is trailing after her, big eyes taking in Billys shitty little apartment. He wonders if petty boy is supposed to be som kinda protection, if Max is scared of him after he yelled at her like he did all the time before. 

“Hey” she says, like she hasn’t been gone for three days, and goes straight for the kitchen, raids it for the food she always leaves and Billy barely eats. Harrington stays by the door, eyeing Billy with some sorta look, a look that makes his skin crawl. The hoodie he’s wearing hides the scars, he _knows_ that, that’s why he fucking wears it. But it still feels like those brown eyes can see everything, see it and remember the _monster_ he tried to kill. The monster he’s _looking_ at, with those brown eyes. 

There’s something _wrong_ with him, instincts all fucked up, and he doesn’t know what makes him open his mouth, what makes him meet those eyes. “Harrington”, his voice is rough, all wrong like he hasn’t used it in a while, in three days. “It’s nice, that you drive her around” is what he says, even though the words are _meaningless_ , coming from him. Harrington still smiles though, halfhearted and small. It’s more than Billy ever thought he’d get from him. 

“Yeah well, it’s important not to be alone”, and not even _dying_ stopped the shivers down Billy’s spine, the ones he got from hearing that voice. Billy doesn’t answer, doesn’t know what to _say_ to someone who knows how fucked up he is, to someone who saw him prepared to kill a _child_. 

“No one should. Be alone, I mean. Not even you” Harrington continues, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting between Billy and the kitchen, where they can hear Max rummaging, still. “You’re an asshole, Hargrove. But you’re in this now, with all of us. And you shouldn’t be alone”. It’s too much, too _easy_ to be selfish and agree. Even though it’s safer for everyone if the monster stays away. _Before_ , he would’ve been pissed. Would’ve told the _stuck up little princess_ that he’s not a goddamn charity case. He just grunts, now. Can’t _say_ anything, doesn’t know what to say. Harrington huffs in response, runs a hand through that hair, and Billy clenches his hands into fists to stop the thoughts of _I want to do that._

“Listen, all I’m saying is that having a friend can make all this shit easier” He’s still talking, and Billy should probably remind him of how he beat that face of his, how he _laughed_ when Steve Harrington punched him. Billy remembers the last time he had a _friend_ , remembers Samuel, and it feels like a lifetime ago. Remembers the smiles and laughs and kisses. Remembers the panic, the chase, the broken ribs and concussion. 

“What, you offering?” He says, ‘cause he doesn’t know when to shut up, and the way those hands twist in that hair is easy to get lost in, even though he _shouldn’t_. 

“Yeah. Yeah, Hargrove, I’m _offering_ ” Harrington says, and that shuts him up. Shuts them both up, ‘cause no one says anything after that. Max leaves, Harrington trailing after, and nothing else is said. Billy doesn’t _understand_ , why Max would waste her time on a _monster_ , why _Harrington_ would. Maybe they’re _all_ fucked up, instincts all wrong. Billy shouldn’t take _advantage_ of the people who don't know better than to invite the monster in. 

Harrington becomes a _part_ of Billys life, after that. He makes himself at home in Billys apartment, just like Max did. Comes by, stays for a while. He talks a lot, even though Billy doesn’t. Talks and acts like Billy didn’t try to _kill_ him, _twice_. Billy can’t even _look_ at him, without remembering how bone _cracked_ and gave into his fists. It makes him _sick_. 

“I’m sorry” he blurts one day, when Harrington’s making something in Billys kitchen, searching for pots and pans and shit Billy never bought but is always there. And he _is_ sorry. He feels the guilt _eating_ at him, every time he looks into those brown eyes. 

“Okay” is all he gets, an _okay_ and one of those smiles that were never meant for Billy, but now they apparently _are_. 

Later, when they’re eating the pasta Harrington made, that tastes like ash on Billys tongue like all food does now, Harrington looks at him in that way that makes Billy wanna _hide_ , makes him feel on display, scars exposed to the world. Says “I’m not the one who needs an apology”, and Billy knows he what he means, knows that he means the kids, the ones he tried to _kill_ , the ones Steve Harrington protects with his goddamn _life_. 

He says “I _know_ , Harrington” and gets back a “It’s _Steve_ ” and an eyeroll.

When Harrington brings his whole pack of brats with him one day, Billy panics. They’re loud and _overwhelming_ and Billy hasn’t _been_ with that many people, hasn’t _seen_ anyone but Max and _Steve_ and doctors he doesn’t know the names of. The kids all pile up on his couch, startin’ a movie they must’ve brought with them. There’s a girl there too, someone Billy’ never seen. He eyes her messy hair and shoes with drawings all over, and she eyes his earring and the ring he didn’t stop wearing. 

He apologizes to the Sinclair kid, remembers the smiles Steve’s been givin’ him, tries to sound _sincere_. ‘Cause he _is_ sorry, sorry for what he did and sorry that the bastard he had to call his _dad_ would _kill_ the kid if he saw what Billy so clearly sees. 

He can’t stay in his cramped living room for long. It’s too _much_ , too many kids yelling and laughing. Too many colors, the movie painting the shadows in red and blue like _fireworks_. He retreats to his bedroom, stays in there, tries to breathe _normal_. _Steve_ finds him, sneaks in and sits on his bed, close enough for Billy too feel the warmth of his skin. 

“You’re doing so well, Billy”, it’s barely there, a whisper, but it sets heavily in Billys chest. Makes his eyes prickle. ‘Cause Steve’s _there_ , treatin’ him like he’s not a goddamn _monster_ , like he deserves some kinda _second chance_. And it’s easy to believe him. When he can hear kids laughing in his tiny living room. When he can feel Steves hand settle over his, thumb rubbing all soothing over his scarred knuckles. It makes his heart race. It’s more than he ever thought he’d get.

They make their way back, and even though it’s still as loud, still _overwhelming_ with all these people who tells him that he’s not a monster, just an _ass_ , Steves hand on the small of his back is grounding. The girl, Robin, sends them looks and wry smiles, and it makes Billy’s skin prickle with fear and some giddy kinda feeling, too. 

For once, Billy lets himself indulge. He lets himself _bask_ in this feelin’ he’s never felt before, a feeling that locks in place where that empty, sick kinda feeling usually sits. He sits back, enjoys the feeling of Steve so _close_ , smiles when Max catches his eye from where she’s sitting too close to Sinclair on his couch. He thinks,

 _Maybe_ this _is where I belong._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this, and sticking around so far. 
> 
> The title is the distance between Indianapolis and California, not the exact mileage between Hawkins and Billy’s home, but close enough. 
> 
> Billy Hargrove is one of the most complex characters in this show, but also one we barely know. I tried to do him justice, even if this probably got quite out of character. 
> 
> I really appreciate feedback and constructive criticism!
> 
> Find me on tumblr: @awickedplacethisis


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